One, two. The butterfly flits its wings, twice, as it hovers in front of the electric lanterns, short blinks that temporarily disrupt the luminous glow of the lanterns against the dark sky. Then it flies away.
The movement catches the attention of the child, his chubby fingers a sticky mess still gripping the stick of walnut sugar-candy his father bought for him at another stall.
To an outside observer, he can't be any older than four. To be precise, he is approaching the three and a half year mark, a time where his interest is easily drawn by the butterfly and he forgets all the reminders his parents gave him earlier this evening about staying close to them, about not running off by himself.
He isn't running, anyway, not really; he ambles leisurely, as the insect isn't moving with great speed. He barely notices as the distance between him and his parents grow: after all, the whole pavilion where the night festival is located is bedecked with the same faux-wooden stalls, the shouts of peddlers selling their wares and hagglers bringing down the price, the air of festivity in the electric red lanterns dotting the sky to celebrate the upcoming Lunar New Year.
So he doesn't realize that his parents are no longer in sight. And his parents, conversing easily with relatives and friends at one of the food stalls, don't notice that he has disappeared until much later.
After following the butterfly for a while, however, he is far enough from the bustle of the festival to notice that it is significantly darker. The red glow of the lanterns illuminating the festival is still visible, but they are far away, the bright orbs dimmed by the distance.
And with the crowd there, he has no idea where his parents are. Thoughts of the butterfly dissipate, and he's getting close to panicking now. But, remember, Mama told him to stay in one place if he ever gets lost, and Mama and Baba will come to find him. So he squats down and clutches the stick of carefully crafted sugared walnuts, observing it in the dim light. It's quite pretty, really, the intricate patterns painted from hardened sugar.
"I'm sorry, no one unauthorized is allowed past these premises." The voice is poised, polite, precise.
Startled, he looks up. It's a robot: if he could read, he'd find the characters printed on the side to be "patrol-bot." The sleek, white metal frames a smooth shape, domed at the top, and glides along easily with its wheels.
"I'm not trying to go anywhere… Can you help me find my parents?"
"I'm sorry, I must stay within the bounds of this area."
"Why?"
"No one unauthorized is allowed past these premises."
"But I don't want to go past. I just want to find my parents."
"Please vacate these premises, then."
"Al…alright." Unsteadily, the child gets up, and begins walking away from the area. Tears are closer now, because he can't do what Mama and Baba told him to because of that strange robot there and maybe that means he'll just be lost forever now and why, oh, why, hadn't he just listened to Mama and Baba?
He wanders around aimlessly, skimming the borders of the festival marketplace but a little ways off to the side, not heading in it. Suddenly, he hears his name and looks in that direction.
"Mama! Baba!" he calls, delighted.
"Oh, thank goodness you're here!" The parents are running toward the child, embracing him when they get close enough. "We were so worried."
In all the fuss, he receives a scolding for getting lost, and so does the nursemaid for not keeping a more careful eye on him. But the reprimands are gentle and far from sincere, as they're too relieved to be seriously angry.
"Remember to stay close to us, okay?"
"Mhm!"